John's Horrible Advice
by 42monkeyswriting
Summary: One-shot based off tumblr prompt: "...Molly wakes up from a six month long coma. Sherlolly..." Established Sherlolly. Was not told preferred rating so T with warnings before/after M parts. Trigger Warning for suicidal thoughts.


**Author's Note:**

Don't know how weak you'd be after a 6 month coma... or if there's a specific time frame or something that lets Doctor's tell other's: "Yes they're going to wake up." "Maybe they might, we don't know." Like in the story. Or "Nope, definitely not." I'm going to assume a brain scan of some sort gives them that info.

Also ended up writing this in present tense. Do you guys like? I'm considering writing my book this way. I always feel it works well for me, but I'm not sure it reads the same for others. There might be few errors in tense because there was a lot of flashing back and I haven't written in present tense in a long time.

Oh and btw, this is my first piece of real smut that I've published. I've written some for myself and in my head and I've read plenty, but I've never actually published anything. Tell me what you think.

** My tumblr is infinitemonkeyswriting . tumblr . com. Requests are still open.**

* * *

She wakes up in an empty hospital room. The last thing she remembers

is waking up wrapped in Sherlock's arms, getting out of bed, getting ready for work, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and leaving 221B.

She looks around. Her clothes and things are in a corner but other  
than that there's nothing else. No get well cards, no flowers. She's  
been with Sherlock long enough to think of deducing something from her  
surroundings. She deduces she hasn't been out for long since nobody  
seems to have dropped by. She feels incredibly weak but assumes it's  
whatever put her in the hospital.

She calls the nurse and asks her what happened.

Car accident as she walked to work. Three broken ribs, severe head trauma.

Molly doesn't feel her like ribs are broken.

She asks how long she's been out.

6 Months.

She can't keep her mouth from gaping.

She asks if Sherlock came around.

The nurse says that he used to all the time and then around two months  
ago he stopped.

An ominous feeling settles in the pit of her stomach. She asks to be  
discharged. They let her go. Warning her to take it easy because her  
muscles are as weak as jello.

She caresses the number keys on her phone and considers calling Sherlock, but she doesn't. Something has gone wrong. Why did he stop visiting? But Sherlock is never any good on the phone. A face to face confrontation will give her more answers. She pockets the keys to 221B and takes a taxi.

* * *

He doesn't know what to do. It's agony. Absolute agony. He hates it. He hates himself. He hates himself for falling so low, for falling to the level of being a'slave to ones emotions.' He hates her for causing it. He hates John for suggesting he move on.

He's tried. In the only way he knows, but he's tried. He took up the cigarettes again. Not the cocaine. He didn't know if he could survive the cocaine again, even if Molly did come back. But he smokes like a chimney. He hits the violin, doesn't even play it. It's in desperate need of repairs. One string is broken. He's ruined the bow. And one of the pegs cracked under the pressure of his fingers. The flat is a mess. He tried to take cases, to drown in them, but when that didn't work he stopped taking them completely. He tried the same thing with his experiments. And now many are laying around unfinished, rotting, dripping, smelling.

Mrs. Hudson comes by once in a while, looks at hims sadly and forces him to eat. John went off to live with Mary. He used to come by occasionally but only to suggest Sherlock move on. To imply to Sherlock she's as good as dead. "She might never wake up. I saw the scans. The chances are incredibly small.," John reminded him.

Sherlock can't handle it. She's there but she's not there. She isn't dead but she's almost dead. It's a limbo worst than hell and Sherlock is absolutely certain for once that John doesn't understand it. Usually John is right about social matters but this time Sherlock just _knows_ he isn't. The fifth time John came to give his usual advice, Sherlock hit him square in the jaw.

John fought back for a moment before slipping out of Sherlock's grip. "I'm only trying to help."

"You've never helped," Sherlock snarled.

John left without a word and hasn't come back since.

Sherlock wants hates him but at the same time he wants him back, or what he really wants is his old life. Solving crimes with John, experimenting with Molly, waking up in her arms, being taken care of by her, letting her sit in his lap so he can stroke her hair as he goes off into his mind palace and she watches crap telly.

Sherlock lets out a pained sound, somewhere between a moan and a growl. He can't take it anymore. He looks at the window. She'll never wake just like John said but he won't get over her either. Sherlock gets off the couch and makes his way upstairs. There's one way he can end this. He doesn't know if he can go through it, but he's going to contemplate it. What's the worst that can happen? He's already hit rock bottom.

* * *

Molly enters through the front door. Mrs. Hudson is out. Speedy's Cafe is closed. Molly slowly makes her way upstairs. Her leg muscles protest but she keeps going and slips into 221B. The door was unlocked. Sherlock is probably in.

The first thing she notices is the smell. It reeks of garbage and smoke. Next she notices the mess. Then she notices Sherlock is nowhere in sight.

"Sherlock?"

No answer. Molly heads into the kitchen. He isn't there but she notices the kettle was put on recently. How strange. Molly looks in their bedroom... nothing.

Maybe he want out for the groceries? Nope, keys are still on the hook in the kitchen. Sherlock's wallet is still on the table.

Maybe he's upstairs bothering John?

"John? Sherlock?" she calls as she heads up the stairs.

Still no answer. She closes her eyes and throws her head back. She's tired. Everything's wrong. Could this get any worse? Apparently it can. As she opens her eyes she notices a strange light on the 3rd floor. Maybe Sherlock was doing something in 221C?

Molly goes up the stairs again. This time she's panting heavily and can hardly call out Sherlock's name. The light she saw was the door to the roof. 221C looks untouched. Curious she makes her way out onto the roof.

Sherlock is there. Molly gasps at the sight. He's on the ledge, balancing on one foot. The other is about to step out into the nothingness in front of him.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock laughs. "Great, now I'm hallucinating."

Molly runs, or at least the equivalent in her state, and grabs onto his coat.

"Sherlock. I'm real. It's me."

Sherlock turns around. His eyes widen. His face is covered with tear tracks.

"Molly?"

"What's going on?"

"Molly..." Sherlock cups her face. "Are you real," his fingers trace her cheeks, her eyebrows. "Molly?"

"It's me."

"John was wrong."

"What?"

"John was so wrong."

And then he's kissing her harder than he's ever kissed her before. His lips bruise hers. Their teeth clash. His tongue slips into her mouth, exploring, tasting, remembering.

It's lovely, but Molly can't breath. She pushes his face away and breaks the kiss. Sherlock grabs at her, pulls her as close as he can. Molly can breath now but only barely. He's squeezing her with all his strength.

"I thought you'd never wake up." He cries into her hair. "Oh Molly." His hands grab at her, caressing, slipping beneath her shirt to feel her skin. "I need... I need to feel you." Sherlock picks her up and guides her legs to wrap around him. He sees Molly is weak though, so he supports her as best as possible and carries her down to their flat.

"Sherlock..." she whispers tentatively against him as he carries her down the stairs. "Back there... Were you going to jump?"

"No. I was only doing... an experiment."

Sherlock puts her down at the door to 221B.

"Sherlock... please, just be honest."

Sherlock opens the door and drags her in.

"I thought I could. John thought I could. Still thinks I can. Not talking to him because of it. But it's been months. I can't deny it anymore. I can't live without you. It hurts. If it was only phychological, it's only a matter of stopping the thoughts, of erasing. But it physically hurt Molly. My chest ached at every mention of you. You were there but not there. A silent ghost I couldn't touch. I couldn't bare it. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't live without you. I was... contemplating putting myself out of my misery. I couldn't do it either though. I was about to step back down. And then I thought I was hallucinating. And then..." Sherlock presses her against the door and crushes his lips to hers. "... you're real." He smiles. "You're really real!" He laughs and kisses her again.

"While I'd really love to do this and help you reaffirm I'm really real... I'm really really tired..." Molly lets her head fall against his shoulder.

Sherlock kisses her forehead and then picks her up in his arms. "Let me take care of you then." He carries her to their bedroom and tucks her in. He makes her a cup of tea and sits by her bedside, staring intently at her as she drinks. Molly bites her lip. He is going to do this, stare at her as if she will disappear any second, until it sinks in that she's awake and real.

"Come here."

"But-"

"Come here."

Sherlock scoots closer and Molly pulls him closer and kisses him. This time it's soft and slow, and full of love.

She unbuttons his shirt.

"You need rest."

"I'm feeling better. Besides, who said I was going to do any work?" Molly grins wickedly.

**-You didn't state a rating, so if you wanted T, stop here... and then you can continue after the next bolded line, otherwise this section is M-**

Sherlock smiles and lets her lay back down and push away the covers. He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and slips it off, then proceeds to pepper her neck with kisses. He unbuttons the dress shirt and unhooks the front clipping bra he's glad he left with her at the hospital and kisses his way down her chest, careful to avoid her nipples. He was fascinated to find months and months ago that she didn't like them kissed, licked, or nibbled.

He palms her breasts instead and gives them a soft squeeze. Molly moans. She does like that though.

Sherlock keeps making his way south. He kisses down her stomach, swirling his tongue around her belly button as he unbuttons her pants and slips them off. Molly moans and turns her head to the side in anticipation.

He kisses along the the edge of her cotton panties before slipping them off too.

"You don't have to," Molly says her voice slightly muffled by the pillow beside her. "Just..."

"I want to." And he renders her incoherent as he licks at her lips. Short tiny licks that turn into long deep swipes that leave Molly an inarticulate mess.

He slips a finger into her then and sucks lightly on her clit than proceeds to worship it with short precise licks slightly to the left, exatcly how like she likes it.

Molly grips the covers with one hand and slips the other down to grip his soft curls. He's rock hard now.

"God, Sherlock."

"Only me here love." He murmurs against her, his voice low and hoarse with need. The vibrations send shivers through her.

"More... Faster."

Sherlock obeys. He adds another finger, curling them slightly until he hears her gasp, and increases his speed.

She's arching her back now. She's almost there.

Oh how he's missed this. That look of absolute moans incoherently at the site and it sends her over the edge.

"Sherlock..." she gasps.

He can't describe it, but there is something about how she says his name, or maybe it's the fact that he thought he'd never be able to hear her say his name or anything ever again that drags him over the edge too.

He clenches his fist in surprise and grinds his hips into the mattress a few times before collapsing against her.

They stay there, panting heavily for a second. Sherlock is the first to get up. He's about to inform her of what just happened but finds her asleep. He cleans up than slips into bed.

**-End of M section. Well the previous paragraph wasn't that M if you want to know what happened exactly, but basically Molly fell asleep afterwards...-**

Sherlock snuggles against her, and throws the covers over them.

He's never told her before, and he never intended to do so and even warned her ne never would. But now after everything that's happened, he thinks he should acknowledge it...

"I love you." He admits, mostly to himself, in the darkened room when she can't hear him.

He doesn't see Molly's smile or her happy tears as they slip down her cheeks. Tears don't shine in the dark.

* * *

**Continued Author's Note:**

Did you know some people can orgasm just by thinking about it? ... I'm fascinated by this fact. But anyways, I don't think what happened to Sherlock was a stretch or anything. It's entirely plausible.


End file.
